


What Was Written On John's Serviette?

by DarthKawaii42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cute, Fluff, John's a soppy romantic, M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock wears John's coat, based on tumblr prompt, which is cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthKawaii42/pseuds/DarthKawaii42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt by tumblr user @the-virus-in-your-data. </p><p>"It was an accident.<br/>It was John’s own fault, really. Except it wasn’t. Don’t blame John. Mustn’t blame John. But it wasn’t on purpose. Should never have happened. It was just an accident."</p><p>In which Sherlock borrow's John's coat and finds something in the pocket he was not supposed to see, which ends up revealing rather more about John's feelings than he was hoping to let on...</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Was Written On John's Serviette?

It was an accident.

It was John’s own fault, really. Except it wasn’t. Don’t blame John. Mustn’t blame John. But it wasn’t on purpose. Should never have happened. It was just an accident.

I mean, really. Of course I was going to wear his jacket if my Belstaff was out of business; covered in chemicals. Hydrochloric acid – diluted, obviously. Sulphur, too. Molly ought to start watching where she’s going rather than staring at me all the time. Why does she do that? She does it even more if I wear that one shirt. The purple one. I wonder if  _John_  likes that shirt? Would  _John_  stare at me even more if I wore it more often? That would be good. Would John’s staring outweigh Molly’s staring? Probably. Shouldn’t do. Pathetic. Why am I being pathetic? Have I always been pathetic?

Anyway.

I had to go to the police station. Graham – Gary – Garth – what was it? Whatever. Irrelevant. Lestrade. Lestrade wanted me to check one of his cases because he’s too incompetent to notice the fraying hem of the perpetrator’s dress. Obvious. Apparently he’s also too incompetent to text, so I had to go to the police station in person. But my coat was covered in chemicals so it only made sense to borrow John’s. Usually John complains if I go out in the cold without a coat. I was simply fulfilling his wishes. He seems to be so very concerned that I’ll end up with hypothermia if I don’t. Hypothermia! Ha! It’s not that cold, John! You’re supposed to be a doctor! You are a doctor. You’re a very good doctor. The best doctor. So I took your coat, because it was there, and it looked warm, and it made me feel like you were there with me, even though you weren’t. I hate that surgery. You should be here, instead, where you belong. You should be with me. I’m sorry, John, that was a bit not good. I’ll try not to be selfish. It’s more important that you’re happy. I’m sorry.

John’s jacket. It was too short, yes, it was much too short, really. I suppose it looked ridiculous. But I didn’t care. I don’t care what people think of me. Except for John. I care then. Does he realise that? Can you see that I try to be a better person for you, John? I make sure I care. I want to show I care, John. I want to show I care about you. I care what people think of  _you_ , too. If someone dares to criticise or belittle you, I care then.

It was an accident, what happened. I didn’t mean for it to happen. Really. I only put my hands in my pockets! It’s a habit, an old habit, putting my hands in my pockets when I’m standing around. I don’t like standing around. Boring. John’s not boring.

Anyway.

I left my gloves in my Belstaff. It’s not like me. I don’t forget things I need. Only idiots forget things. Only idiots fall in love. I’m not an idiot. Am I an idiot? I never thought I was an idiot. But I forgot my gloves and, okay, suppose my fingers were just a touch cold. John was right. John’s always right. Of course he is.

Gloves, yes. I didn’t think. But I always think. Why didn’t I think? Oh. I was thinking about John. Again. Why does that keep happening? It’s distracting. I can’t focus on the work. I can only focus on him. Do I need to focus on anything other him? Why do I need to focus on anything other than him? I like to focus on him. My John Watson.

Anyway.

Cold hands. No gloves. So? Hands in pockets. And then: paper. Not a receipt; not glossy paper. Soft paper. Not paper – serviette! Serviette? It’s not like John to keep rubbish in his pockets. Military organisation; doesn’t hang onto things unless he needs to. Or wants to. Curious.

A restaurant serviette, by the feel of it, folded neatly into a square – he wanted to preserve it, then. Sentimental value? Why would such a thing have sentimental value?

A sudden pang. I thought I’d deleted that. I don’t want to remember that. I don’t want that to ever have happened. Neither does John. I hope.

Serviettes, hundreds of them, folded into origami replicas of the Syndey Opera House, and the occasional swan. Me, sitting there, like a child, surrounded by them. Like a prisoner, surrounded by sentries, guards, isolating me. Alone. So alone. And, and Mary, too. And John was there! Except he wasn’t. Mary, she wouldn’t let him – she wouldn’t let  _us_  – she wouldn’t – DELETE! Delete, delete,  _delete_ , for God’s sake! Why won’t it just disappear?! Please! I don’t…! I can’t…!

STOP!

Stop.

Go back: serviette.

John’s serviette, from the pocket of John’s jacket, which I was wearing because John is back in Baker Street with me now and Mary’s gone and everything’s fine. It’s fine. John’s fine. It’s all fine.

Deep breaths, I composed myself. Concentrated on the serviette.

I ran my fingers over it and no: it’s older than any of those serviettes could be. Not one of those, then; unrelated. Irrelevant. Good.

That was it, then. I had to have a look. Didn’t I? Of course I did. Habit. Or reassurance? I probably shouldn’t have done, I suppose. But I did.

It was red, not white, and – writing! All over it, writing! John’s handwriting, black ink, written with the nice pen that came with that notebook I bought him for Christmas, years ago. He uses it a lot. Refilled it three times already. The notebook too, but I ensured it had a lot of pages so it would last. I’m glad he likes them.

Still: serviette, written all over by John Watson. First thought: shopping list. But no, it’s in sentences, no one writes a shopping list in sentences, and no one writes a shopping list on an item of sentimental value, do they? A memo, then, perhaps it was something significant. Lots of writing for a memo. Not a memo? Something else. I unfolded it. Had to open it up completely to see it all; it spanned the serviette in its entirety.

Noticed my own name. All over the place. Almost every paragraph. About me, then? Why was John writing about me? A feeling, in my chest, just inside my ribs, like a chasm being suddenly filled with some alien substance. Strong. Overpowering. I blinked, shook it off.

Then I read.

_“I thought it was the end for me. I was on the edge, on the brink. I didn’t expect to survive. I didn’t want to, anyway. I had nothing, no one, to try for, to get up in the morning for, to be a good person for. To live for.”_

When was this? What had happened? What was wrong with John? John! Are you alright, John?!

No, stop: past tense. Read it. Don’t let emotions get in the way. I continued.

_“That was, until that day, that day when he walked into the lab at St Bart’s and into my life. One thing I can be certain of: if I hadn’t met Sherlock Holmes, I wouldn’t be here today. I’ve never properly thanked him for that. I should do.”_

Hands started to tremble. Nothing I could do. _I_ should thank _him!_ If I hadn’t met John, if John wasn’t here, if John hadn’t survived, what would I –

STOP!

Deep breath. Steadied myself. Felt almost as though I was intruding, as though this was something too close, too intimate, but… I couldn’t stop reading. Suddenly my eyes were moving of their own accord, my brain interpreting involuntarily. Had to continue.

_“I killed a man for Sherlock Holmes, despite having known him only a day or so. I don’t know why I ran after him at all, really: everyone told me not to, not to worry about him, and not to trust him. They warned me that he was a psychopath, a serial killer waiting to begin. But, somehow, I just knew he wasn’t like that. He’s bizarre, yes. And he throws himself into these terrible, dangerous situations without a second thought – I wish he wouldn’t, it terrifies me to think what might happen – but that’s just him, I guess. He’s unique. And he’s perfect, just like that. Really.”_

Perfect? Me, perfect? John thinks I’m…

_“We had dinner that night, at the Chinese place down the road. I feel daft writing it, but it was just like a date. That’s where I picked up this napkin. To remind me of it all.”_

Mind went fuzzy. Couldn’t compute. Too much, too sudden!

_“Then there was that time at the swimming pool, with… him. Jim Moriarty. The way Sherlock looked at me when I had that bomb strapped to me, I’d never seen him like that. That was the first time I’d really seen what he’s really like, deep down. It was worth being in such danger – it was worth almost dying – to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the first time, really, I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain.”_

No – no, another time I don’t want to remember. Almost lost him. Almost lost my John and it would’ve been all my fault. I’ve never known anyone so brave, so compassionate as him. Don’t think anyone better exists. But this! Did he not realise how much I care for him until that moment? Why did I never let him see? If I’d lost him that day, if he’d gone, or we’d both gone, would he never have known I feel so very strongly about him? 

 _Stop._  Don’t want to consider that.

Just read.

 _“It happened again in Baskerville, in a way, with the drug. He likes people to think he hasn’t got any emotions, but that, frankly, is a load of rubbish. Sherlock can’t cope when his emotions get the better of him, so he pretends not to have them at all. As I said: rubbish. If he let people – if he let_ me _– help, he wouldn’t have to hurt himself like that.”_

Trust John. He can see straight through me. Like glass. Cellophane, maybe. Trust John to understand.

_“Then there was Irene Adler. ‘The Woman’, he called her. And that was another side I’d never seen of him. On the first day we met, he told me he doesn’t date. He said he was ‘married to his work’. But his encounter with her made me wonder, made him wonder, I think. He was forced to confront things he usually dismisses as being for people ‘below him’. Us ‘goldfish’, as his brother so tactfully puts it. Anyway.“_

Goldfish?! John is anything but a  _goldfish._  Why does Mycroft have to say these things? Stupid Mycroft. I didn’t love her, John. I never loved her. She was clever, yes, but I didn’t love her. I’ve only ever loved one person like that, John. I love… I love…

I love you, John.

I couldn’t read it anymore. Too much. Too personal, too… intimate. I scanned the rest. Couldn’t give part of it a second glance – the fall. I’ll never forgive myself for what I put him through. In trying to save the one person I care about most I made him suffer so much it was almost for nothing. Oh, John, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. John…

There was no mention of, of  _her_ , thank God. Mary. Only the tiniest bits.

_“Sherlock saved me from that bonfire. He ran straight in, fearless, grabbed me and dragged me out. Next thing I knew his hands were on my face and he was pleading, pleading for me to be alive, to be okay. I was, thanks to him.”_

And then… that day, that day when – wait, what?!

_“They say your wedding should be the best day of your life. Mine was not. In fact, it was one of the worst. I sat at that table and as Sherlock talked, as he made us laugh, and, mostly for me, cry, I realised. I realised that the person I should be marrying was sitting next to me… but they were not wearing a wedding dress.”_

I almost dropped the serviette.

_“I nearly lost Sherlock again after that, and it was all my fault.”_

No, John! It was my fault, if only I’d warned you about Mary, if only I hadn’t rushed in there thinking I knew what I was doing, if only I hadn’t been so selfish and so, so stupid –

_“I’m sure he blames himself. He shouldn’t. He was trying to do what he thought was best and he was trying to be a hero. For me. You don’t have to do things like that for me to see you as a hero, Sherlock. You don’t have to be a hero for me. Just be safe!”_

Back to skimming it. I couldn’t cope with reading it properly but I needed to know what else he’d put.

The list continued. Paragraph after paragraph of things we’ve done together, things we’ve been through. Not all big things: some small things, things I’d filed away for safekeeping in my Mind Palace, things I thought John would’ve forgotten, but no.

Things like when we went out for a walk one day. Together. He said I’d been cooped up too long and needed to breathe so we should go out for a walk. Just John and I. Just us. How I like it to be. How it should be.

It was summer. John bought us ice creams, even though they’re for children, but John smiled and he wanted me to have one and how could I refuse then?

_“I think he enjoyed it, secretly, even though he didn’t stop complaining for ages. And then he had a bit of ice cream on his nose, like a little kid, and–”_

And John reached out and wiped it off, so gently, and he smiled at me with such a tender look in his eyes and, and, and I thought…

I thought he was going to kiss me. Wanted him to kiss me. Want to kiss him.

I should never have read this. Wrong. Immoral. Breach of trust. I began to fold it up and then –Then I noticed it. How did I miss it before?

I stopped breathing.

At the bottom. In a different pen; dark red ink. Barely showed up against the crimson.

One sentence. One sentence that made my heart skip a beat.

_“This is the story of how I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes.”_

 


End file.
